This Tisha B'Av Special Meaning

Jewish tradition teaches that the destruction of the Temple which took place on the ninth day of Av, Tisha B'Av, was caused by baseless hatred between Jews. This fast day has long been used to symbolize the many calamities that have befallen the Jewish people in its long history. The Ultra Orthodox, who shun anything secular prefer Tisha B'Av to Yom Ha Shoah to remember the worst genocide in human history. Not only is the book of Lamentations read on this day but so are many other dirges written years after the destruction of the temple memorializing other great Jewish tragedies.

Since the founding of the modern State of Israel and after the liberation of Jerusalem in 1967, many question the usefulness of the day. Why lament past tragedies when we finally have returned home, have a strong defense force and are free to pray at our holy sites? Some years those questions resonate with me, after all the Temple was destroyed over two thousand years ago and if you know the history, we Jews did not exactly set a perfect example of how to run a non corrupt religious center. How much meaning can the day possibly have?

Yet, every few years and unfortunately more often in the recent past, the usefulness of Tisha B'Av as day of reflection becomes very obvious. Anti Semitism rears its ugly head every so often but lately it has taken on new levels of extremity. While the world is seemingly falling apart; Russia/Ukraine, Syria, Libya, ISIS, Iraq, Afghanistan, drug wars, gun violence and a host of other problems, a small regional conflict seems to occupy the time and minds of just about everyone. That conflict of course is the Israel/Palestine one. In comparison to those listed above it should be considered a minor one, but of course it's different because Jews are involved.

Like many supporters of Israel, I have been glued to my computer and television following the latest involving the current conflagration in Gaza. As an American I take solace in knowing that most of my fellow countrymen support the Middle East's only democracy against a radical Islamist terrorist group bent not only on the destruction of Israel but on the destruction of America and all of Western civilization. Yet, I fear that this bit of good news is overshadowed by an intermingling of anti Israel sentiments with flagrant anti Semitism. Israel is now the aggressor in this narrative and Israel to the haters includes all Jews.

In Belgium, a doctor refuses to treat a Jewish woman and tells her to go to Gaza to see how it feels. In the Netherlands a coffee shop places a sign that reads "Dogs ok, Jews not welcome." Anti Israel protests in Great Britain feature swastikas and signs reading "Hitler was right" and "Back to the gas chambers." In France it is dangerous to walk outside looking Jewish and synagogues are attacked as if they were an extension of the Israeli foreign ministry. On social media not only are lies being disseminated about the war in Gaza but ugly invective is used against those like myself who defend Israel's right to defend herself.

In the digital era truth has many faces to different people. It allows those who hate to find further excuses to not only hate but to be public about it. It allows for propaganda to be discoursed as if it was truth. It takes lies and half truths and indicts a whole people with it legitimizing calls for the destruction of one people, the Jews.

So this Tisha B'Av I fast and I mourn and I cry because it seems like the end is once again near. While I pray that hatred against my people ends I also pray for peace and the cessation of hostilities that take the lives of innocent civilians. I pray that people focus not just on one small corner of the world but that we focus on the whole ugly picture and find solutions to wanton killing of Muslims, Christians and Jews in the name of God. This Tisha B'Av will has special meaning to me and I pray that it does for you as well. 

An Appreciation - Sue Moskowitz 36 Years After Her Passing

Thirty six years ago today my mother, Sue Moskowitz, passed away after succumbing to breast cancer. She was forty six. I, the youngest of four children was fourteen. Mom had her left breast surgically removed shortly after my bar mitzvah. That was followed by close to a year of chemotherapy; the chemo of the 70's that caused hair loss, bloating, nausea and vomitting. When her treatment ended we made a party at our house to thank God for what we believed was the end to a scary nightmare. The party was on January 15th 1978, Superbowl Sunday. The Dallas Cowboys were playing the Denver Broncos in Superbowl XII and more than one guest told mom that there were few people in the world they would miss the game for and she was one of them. In appreciation of mom's finishing her chemo, my father pledged what was a considerable sum for him, a schoolteacher, to the Ramaz building fund, the school where he taught.

The celebration was joyous and full of hope. Between score checks, the guests, all close friends toasted mom and gave wishes for her continued health and long life. Unfortunately, the optimism of that day was short lived. A few short months later during the seder in our home, one which mom insisted on preparing for and inviting to it her brothers and their families, she took ill and retired early to her bedroom. She had relapsed and the cancer had spread. My brother's wedding due to take place in June in Denver was moved to New York so mom could attend. My sister, engaged but without a wedding date, rushed to get married. Both weddings took place within two weeks of each other that June. She was gone by July.

As mom's situation deteriorated to the point of no return, I was summoned back from Camp Massad Bet to say goodbye and be with her at her last moments. I thought I had myself under control and I thought I understood what was happening. In retrospect of course, I had no clue just how painful and shocking this really was and what a profound impact it would have on the rest of my life.

We were all given a few minutes to be alone behind the curtain to say some final words to mom who was slipping in and out of consciousness. I remember telling her that I was sorry for all the trouble I caused her and that I just wanted her to get better. Through her morphine induced haze she told me, "enough zeeskeit, enough." I could not sit in the room any longer for this vigil of death. Mom, did not look like herself. Gone was the beauty, the warm smile, the sparkling eyes and the soft words of a loving mother. Lying there was a jaundiced, bald and bloated woman who told us how scary it was not to be able to breathe. I ran to the waiting room and stared into space. Friends tried to console me, keep me company and hold me. I wanted none of it. I wanted to be left alone, to stare out at the beautiful sunny day watching people on the streets of New York going about their business, just another day for them, oblivious to the pain and trauma a fourteen year old was going through at that very moment just a few windows above them.

I was interrupted by a family friend who told me I must come "now." I went up to mom's bed where I watched her take her last breath, her yellowed eyes seemingly staring at nothing and no one. My sister cried, "she's there but she's not there." The doctor, a family friend, closed her eyes, removed some tubes and covered her with a sheet. I would learn from him during the shiva that he went into a private room afterwards and cried like a baby. "Your mom," he told me at the shiva, "was a special woman." I may have known that, but hearing it gave me strength.

I knew my mom only through the prism of a child. I was deprived of the mature relationship an adult  son has with his mother. I missed out on what would have been sage advice at critical times in my life. From then on I didn't come home to the wafting smell of homemade cookies or fresh, clean laundry pressed and waiting in my drawers. I learned to shop for food, prepare meals, do laundry, clean house and prepare for Shabbat. I gained weight because I had no idea how to balance a meal or that frying everything was not a good idea. Already a weak student, I barely got by. I thought I was coping but the reality was much different, I was falling into a deep depression. If not for the kindness of my father, close friends, classmates, my siblings and some select few teachers, I easily could have become a statistic. Somehow, I plowed through and survived.

I learned to deal precisely by not dealing. I buried my pain and let it manifest itself in other emotions, particularly anger. I was angry and became rebellious. I got uncomfortable when people brought my mom up to me. I could not associate all the warmth and good she gave me for the fourteen years I had her, mention of her became synonymous with death and pain, something I learned to bury deep in the recesses of my sub conscious.

Mom wasn't known for great scholarship, though she was well read. She wasn't a gourmet but everything she made for us was delicious and comforting. She wasn't afraid to try things and fail, then try again and get it right, pecan pie being but one example. She wasn't afraid to go back to work when a second income was needed and relearned to drive when that became necessary. Mom is remembered by just about everyone that knew her as warm and welcoming. Our house was rarely empty. Not a Friday night dinner, Shabbat lunch or Seudah Shlisheet was without guests, this in addition to those guests who were spending the whole Shabbat with us already. Mom's house was the first place people from Israel came to, asking to stay a few nights. Many stayed for years. When my brothers went to Yeshiva University, their out of town friends were ubiquitous in our home Shabbat after Shabbat. Every Friday before Shabbat came in mom had a list of people she called to wish a good Shabbat. Most of them were my father's aunts, uncles and relatives, all of whom had lost most of their family in the Holocaust. If they didn't have there own nieces and nephews or children to call them, she would.

Over a thousand people attended her funeral on a hot July day when many people are away. I saw old men and young women, people I barely knew crying at the loss. She had touched so many with her smile, her warmth and her ability to make everyone feel special.

I am not shy to express myself in so many ways about so many issues, but for thirty six years I could not bring myself to write much or speak about my mom. Yet not a day goes by that I don't think of her, miss her and wonder what my life would be like had she been around. Having my father with me for fifty years has taught me that I missed out on so much that I needed in life from my mom. While I am blessed to have had her for those fourteen years, her absence from my growing into adulthood, marriage, children, a grandchild and other milestones has been an irreplaceable void in my life. I believe though that from her I learned to unconditionally love of my children and I pray that they are the people they are today in no small part due to her.

I may not have fully recovered from the pain of losing her, but I am hopeful this is a start. Instinctively I know that she understands me, what I went through and how I handled myself. Somewhere, in that spiritual afterlife my mother's soul is being lifted a bit higher. For that I can finally say I take some comfort.